


Dismantle

by Pearls1975



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood, Breathplay, Drug Use, Drugs, Kneeling, Knifeplay, M/M, Mild Kink, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 20:49:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1563569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearls1975/pseuds/Pearls1975
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shot about Sherlock's drug habit and why he needs Moriarty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dismantle

 

 

 

            **  
**

            Sherlock was restless. He hated being restless. Pacing only made it worse.  

            He posted the wedding video on John's blog, already answered all the comments.  

            In the meantime, Mycroft kept handing him silly little cold cases that Scotland Yard couldn't solve.

            “Scotland Yard has a hard time finding their own asses,” Sherlock's snide comments toward the Yard always excited Mycroft for some reason. He chastised his little brother for every remark, without fail. 

 

*******

 

            Then it happened.

            Lady Elizabeth Smallwood happened.

            And the instant she left, he was dancing around his flat like a little school girl like he did when there was a serial killer in London four years ago. Except there was nobody here to see him so excited.  There was nobody to cheer him on.  Nobody for Sherlock to talk through the details. 

            He stood in the middle of 221B and sighed. 

            “Damn you, John Watson.” He pursed his lips and opened his laptop and started his research on Charles Augustus Magnusson. 

            The next day, Sherlock tore off the nicotine patches and threw them away, along with the box John bought him before he went on his honeymoon.

            Sherlock threw on his coat and caught a taxi. He gave the address of a tobacco shop he frequented before he stopped smoking and made small talk with the owner to get friendly again.

            He found his homeless network in record time and gave them instructions on Magnusson.  He also asked around about where he could score...something... _anything_ at this point.

          

*******

 

            It started with cocaine, powder form, and the high nearly knocked him on his ass. He'd forgotten the beautiful rush it gave him.  The way it cleared his mind, making even the smallest of details easier to see.

            He went on to Heroin, a completely different type of high. Something that he remembered he didn't do often because of how sick it would make him. 

 

            This for the purposes of his next experiment would serve nicely.

 

            Sherlock nearly kissed the woman that gave him the information about Janine.  She was the perfect in to Magnusson. The perfect person to spread rumors about his return to the dirty London drug scene. 

            He asked her out, just for coffee at first. He had predicted correctly that she was completely surprised.  What he hadn't anticipated were the subjects they would broach during their first few innocent outings.

            “You miss him, don't you?” She had asked.  Sherlock squinted over at her.  For some awful reason, he brought her to Angelo's and the owner had asked about John.  He was also surprised at Janine being his date for the evening.

            He brought Janine back to the flat that evening. She was too easily impressed at the little details.

But, she took care of him like a champ when he had too much to drink.

            The only thing Sherlock would admit to anyone about Janine was that she was soft.  It was nice to lie in someone’s arms and have them stroke your hair until you passed out.   He lost count at how many times he would make some sort of excuse to not have sex with her.  She gave head like a porn star and taught him a thing or two about pleasing a woman.  But he never had sex with her, ever.

 

 

*******

 

 

            _Heroin_ :  Sherlock never understood naming a drug that could easily be mistaken for a woman of distinct courage or abilities. The missing 'e' was the thin line.

            Sherlock's adventures in Heroin had brought him close to the Gollum's 'lair'.  He remembered that night with John, almost losing his life if John hadn't have been there.

            'Sherlock solves the case, John saves the life.'

            He bought enough to kill a horse, but the dealer was excited to finally have food on his table for his family, at least that's the story he told Sherlock.  Sherlock smiled and proceeded to shoot-up. 

 

 

*******

 

            Halfway back to the flat he forgot that John wasn't living at 221B.  He had the cabbie stop at the Thai place that he and John frequented after long cases.  Sherlock walked back to 221B talking to himself and smiling.  He skipped every other stair on his way up to the flat.

            That should have been his clue that the Heroin was cut with some sort of speed.

            _'John's going to be impressed that I brought home, take-out.'_  He thought.  Deep in his drug addled brain he truly believed John was still living there and that he would stand up from his chair and smile the smile that made his eyes crinkle at the edges. Sherlock knew that was John's genuine smile.

            So when Janine called out from his bedroom instead of John, Sherlock was confused.

            “Who are you?” He asked, hand halfway into the take-out bags.  “Where's John?”

            “Ah, it's Janine, Sherlock,” she stood beside the refrigerator. “John is on his honeymoon.”

            “No, no...” Sherlock brushed past her to walk to the bathroom.  He knocked on the door and called John's name.

            “Sherlock, John isn't here,” Janine repeated.

            “Shut-up,” he snapped as he walked past her, this time into the living room.

            Janine stood watching him, stunned.

            He made mad circles in the living room, gesturing wildly. She walked up behind John's chair and leaned on it.

            “Don't touch his chair!” He yelled.

            Janine took her hands off and put her hands up in a surrendering gesture. 

            “He was just here.  He was in his chair, waiting for me. He searched my sock drawer.”

            Janine walked up to Sherlock and grabbed him by his forearms. He pushed her hard and she ended up on the couch. 

            “Sherlock, are you high?” 

            Sherlock squinted at her and she could see his pupils were dilated even though there was plenty of light in the room.

            “I-...Janine?” He finally said after several moments of watching her grab her coat.

            She quirked an eyebrow at him as he walked over to her.

            “I should go and let you sober up, yeah?”

            “Please, don't go,” his words came out slowly and deliberately. “I'm sorry. This was for a case.”

            “A case,” She sighed at him. “What kind of case has you getting high?”

            “They...I don't know...” He started to wobble and she caught him before he fell forward on his face.

            “Christ Sherlock.” Janine looked at him.  “I don't even know what to do with you.”

            “Hold me, John,” he wrapped his arms around her and nuzzled her neck. “Mmm...you smell good.”

            She let out an exasperated sigh and threw her coat on the nearest chair.  Janine helped him get to his bedroom.

 

*******

 

            Two days later, Sherlock was sitting in his chair, staring at John's empty chair.  Everything was gray and the last thing he remembered was shooting Heroin near the Gollum's lair.

            He drew in a deep drag of the clove. He bought them to break up the monotony of the other cigarettes.

            Sherlock missed John.  He needed someone to tell him to stop smoking. He needed someone to stop him from this final decision he was making.  John would stop him. But John wasn't there. 

            He stood and smashed out the last of the clove in the already overflowing ashtray. He blinked at it wondering how long he had been sitting in that spot.

            Then his stomach growled and he furrowed his brow at it. The past couple days were foggy and he could only recall bits and pieces now; mostly of Janine taking care of him.  That was important for some reason as he drew in a deep breath to try to remember. 

            He had made his way into the hallway just off the kitchen to his bedroom and he punched the wall in frustration. Cursing, he brought his hand back and stared at the blood.

            The pain finally registered in his drugged mind as he walked into the bathroom and washed the blood off his knuckles, hissing in pain the whole time.  Looking up at himself in the mirror, he frowned and looked away immediately. Sherlock thought about punching the mirror, but he needed the daily reminder of needing to shave and basically taking care of himself.

            Scrubbing his face, he turned the shower water as hot as it could go and stripped out of his pyjama bottoms and thin t-shirt.  He ran his hand over his pale body, feeling all the bones and crevices. He really should start eating, and maybe working out.

            Dull.

            He stepped into the scalding shower and immediately turned the water down to a bearable temperature.

 

*******

 

            After the hot water had run its course, Sherlock stepped out of the shower and dried.

            Walking into his bedroom, he saw Janine’s cardigan on the chair next to his wardrobe.  He smirked to himself as he wrapped the towel around his waist and ruffled his hair.  He could start a collection.  He had one of John's in the wardrobe, why not Janine's? Maybe, one of Mary's was next.

            Sherlock bit his lip as he thought of John and Mary together, happy. Yes, John was happy and that's all that counted.

            He hung the cardigan next to John's and paused. Reaching out, he touched the soft knit of John's gray sweater. He pulled on the sleeve and cried into it.

            _'Sherlock...'_

            He sniffed and raised his head. Sherlock could have sworn the voice was right beside him. Looking around the room and seeing no one, he swallowed hard and closed the wardrobe.  He walked over to his nightstand and pulled out 'The Enchanter' by Nabokov and flipped through. Three small packets fell out and he grabbed them off the nightstand and strode into the kitchen.

            After dosing up on the first packet, he could feel the rush and euphoria of the Heroin starting to kick in.  He bought from another dealer he didn't normally buy from, so he knew the purity was questionable. 

            Walking into the bathroom, he had the sudden urge to clean himself up and dress proper. He brought out his shaving cream and blade and brushed the cream on his face.  Bringing the blade up to his face, he carefully took a swipe and rinsed the blade.

            Oh how easy it would be to just slit his jugular and have it all end right there.

            No, if he was really going to die, it would be more dramatic.  Like jumping off a building like he did in front of John.

            _'You're ordinary – you're on the side of the angels.'_

            Without realizing what he had done, Sherlock had written Moriarty's name all over the mirror, the walls, and part of the shower in shaving crème.

            He could hear Moriarty's voice in time with his heartbeat.

            _'You need me. Without me, you are nothing.'_

            Why Moriarty all of a sudden?

            'Why are you in my head?'

            Sherlock held his head and listened.

            _Silence._

            He drew in a deep breath and blinked several times to orient himself. 

            Sherlock finished shaving a looked at his knuckles one last time.  Only a burning sensation remained.  He decided to dress it so he wouldn't bleed all over his clothes.

            Before walking into his bedroom, he wandered the flat to see what triggered his Moriarty hallucination. He glanced at the coffee table in front of the couch, and that's when he saw it.  The hint of red in the abstract fruit bowl that Molly had given them – _him_ – for one holiday or another.

            _'Every fairy tale needs a good old fashioned villain.'_

            Sherlock shook his head to clear it and rubbed his temples. His heart pounding in his chest was all he could hear at the moment and his limbs took on a tingly feeling. Smiling, he drew in a deep breath and walked back to his bedroom. He took his time choosing what he wanted to wear. He pulled out his favorite suit and found a white dress shirt to go with and froze.  Hanging loosely around the collar of the shirt was a black tie.  Upon closer inspection, he saw tiny skulls embroidered in white silk thread upon the black silk.

            _'We are just alike; you and I, except you're boring.'_

            “I'm not boring,” Sherlock's voice surprised him in the quiet flat. He looked around.  Dust floated in the air where the sunlight was steaming through the curtains in his room. Down the hall he could see the apple sitting on the kitchen table and he furrowed his brow.

            _'Finish dressing. I have a surprise for you.'_

            The voice, the warm breath.  Sherlock could have sworn they were right at his ear, and his heart quickened at the notion of Moriarty being so close.  He turned his head to see nobody standing next to him. He opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it.

            Sherlock dressed slowly and deliberately, relishing the feel of the fine fabrics on his sensitive skin. He never wore ties, but he had the feeling this one would come in handy.  He inspected himself in the mirror that was on the inside of the door of the wardrobe.

            _'You are a fine specimen, Sherlock.'_

            The dark, beady eyes and the black hair.  He saw them over his shoulder, standing some feet behind him.  But when Sherlock turned, no one was there. 

            Closing his eyes, he exhaled loudly. Then, drew in a deep breath.  He reached out a hand to the wardrobe so he wouldn't fall.  He opened his eyes, and saw himself in the mirror again. He straightened the tie and found that his hands were shaking and quickly closed the wardrobe. Pursing his lips and wriggling his fingers, he willed his body to calm down, but he knew that wasn't going to happen.

            _'Come out and play, Sherlock_.'

            The voice came from the sitting room and Sherlock made his way there and sat in his chair.  The room was stuffy as he steepled his fingers under his chin and closed his eyes.

            “Moriarty,” he said aloud. “Magnusson. Pressure points. Appledore.”

            “John Watson.”

            Sherlock's eyes snapped open and sitting across from him in John's chair, was Jim Moriarty.  He was dressed in an outfit that mirrored Sherlock's, even down to the tie. 

            He smiled.

            “That is _your_ pressure point, Sherlock Holmes.” Moriarty paused and sighed.  “So predictable you are.”

            “Why are you here? Why now?” Sherlock asked.

            “You need me Sherlock. Do I have to repeat myself? You need me or you are nothing.”

            “But you are dead.  I saw you. Blood everywhere.  The gun in your hand-”

            “Boring.” Moriarty steepled his hands, mimicking the other man. “But you are alive. You are bored.”

            “Magnusson.”

            “What?”

            “I have Magnusson.”

            “Then, you tell me Sherlock. Why am I here?”

            Sherlock swallowed hard. He held Moriarty's questioning gaze.

            “You are so bored, you resorted to drugs for a case,” Moriarty was now standing next to Sherlock's chair looking down at him with the packet of Heroin in his palm. “Are you sure this is for the case, Sherlock?  You have Lady Smallwoods information. You can just go and confront Magnusson, demand the letters-”

            “I need to trick him into thinking-” Sherlock's mind drew a blank. He was missing a key piece of information. He couldn't finish his sentence.

            “Hmmm...I can't hear you, Sherlock? Speak up!”

            Sherlock felt himself shaking as he stared straight ahead, trying to access the information he needed.

            “Flirting’s over now, Sherlock, daddy's had enough now!”  Moriarty bent at the waist and put his lips to Sherlock's ear.  “I can help you not be bored anymore. I can help you.  Let me show you.”

            Sherlock inhaled sharply and his body stiffened at Moriarty's words.

            “Stand up, Sherlock.  Let me show you.”  Moriarty straightened as Sherlock stood and faced the other man.  He kicked the chair out of the way and circled Sherlock as if he were prey.  “I told you I would burn the heart out of you. Pulled John Watson out of that fire pretty quickly, I say.”

            Sherlock turned to follow Moriarty as he circled him. “How did you-”

            “Stand still.  You are making me dizzy.” 

            Sherlock stopped and Moriarty circled him until he was facing Sherlock's back. He placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and squeezed.  He felt the other stiffen under his touch.

            “I know you Sherlock. John Watson is the only one that puts up with you.  He's just as addicted to you as you are to him.” He let go of Sherlock's shoulder and ran his palm just below the others collar, his fingertips brushing the back of his neck.  Sherlock shivered.  Moriarty grinned and circled around to face Sherlock. “But now John Watson has found a new addiction. Mary Morstan.”

            Sherlock winced at the name.  He didn't want to think of someone else making John happy. Of someone else feeding John at the appropriate times.  Of someone else getting to hear the little noises that John makes when he tosses off-

            Moriarty grabbed Sherlock's neck and squeezed just enough so he could still draw breath.

            “You are addicted to John Watson.  You want to know every single moan, every single breath, and every single move he would make lying underneath you.”  

            Sherlock wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs.  Moriarty let go of his neck and looked down and grinned.

            “You wanted more from him than he could give to you.”  He grabbed Sherlock's crotch, soliciting a grunt from the man.

            Sherlock closed his eyes and felt the blood rushing from his face to his mid-section.

            “Open your eyes Sherlock.  It's what you do best, observe everything.”

            Sherlock started at Moriarty's voice and hot breath at his ear and opened his eyes.  The air in the room was heavier somehow and there was something different.  It was a small change, but enough to set the hair on the back of his neck on end. He looked around.  When he didn't see Moriarty, he turned and his foot kicked something metal.  Looking down, he saw scissors of all shapes and sizes.  Some of them rusty, some of them shiny.

            “Today we are going to deconstruct Sherlock Holmes and see what he really is made of.”  Moriarty was standing four feet away from him, a pair of scissors in hand.

            Sherlock's eyes widened and he started to back away.

            “Oh Sherlock, please,” Moriarty stepped towards him. “I'm not going to hurt you. Unless that's what you want?” 

            Sherlock looked down again and the scissors were gone.

            “Give me your hand.”

            He was compelled to give his hand to Moriarty and he took it gently.  He rubbed his thumb along the palm. Turning the hand over, Moriarty saw the bandage and tutted.

            “Temper, temper,” Moriarty brought the hand to his lips and kissed the bandage. Sherlock started shaking.  “Relax.”

            Moriarty turned to a table nearby that Sherlock hadn't noticed earlier.  On the table were the scissors that had been on the floor.  Moriarty threw off his suit jacket and underneath he was wearing a white dress shirt with a black vest and an arm brace around his right bicep. Moriarty picked up two pairs of rusty scissors and opened and closed them, reveling in the metallic sound.  He twirled them like some western gunslinger and placed them in the pockets of his vest.

            Sherlock closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. Moriarty was in front of him again and he fingered the tie.  Sherlock opened his eyes and saw the blade that he used to shave earlier in the others hand.  Moriarty smiled and raised an eyebrow.  He raised the blade and Sherlock held his breath.

            The man was now standing behind him and laughing.  He grabbed Sherlock's suit coat and cut from the collar down to the split in the back, giggling the whole time.  Sherlock wanted to stop him, but he was rooted in place.  He saw the blade out of the corner of his eye as it cut into the left sleeve.  Moriarty's hand ran across his chest, and proceeded to cut at the right sleeve.  He stood in front of Sherlock and placed the blade in the brace on his right arm.  Grabbing both sleeves, he yanked and they fell off.  Moriarty threw them off in a dark corner.

            With scissors in hand, he worked like a mad tailor, cutting Sherlock's coat off his body. He used the blade to swipe off the buttons and placed it between his teeth.  He smiled his Cheshire cat smile at the other who watched him with worried eyes. Moriarty pulled what was left of his coat off his body.

            Sherlock, still shaking, stood in his place and watched Moriarty make precision cuts and slices on his shirt.  He then took the blade and with deliberate moves, sliced each button off the shirt.  He watched and smiled as Sherlock flinched at every button.  When he finished, Moriarty knelt in front of the detective, and watched the shaky intake of breath.

            “I bet this is a view you never thought you would see?”  Moriarty leaned in toward the others thighs and caressed them both.  He watched as Sherlock erection grew and grabbed the scissors closest at hand and cut both pant legs off at mid-thigh, leaving his pale legs exposed.  Moriarty's left hand wriggled its way into Sherlock's pants and his knuckles brushed his cock.  Sherlock squirmed and a small cry escaped his lips. 

            “Good,” Moriarty stood and threw off the remnants of the shirt, leaving the tie and part of the cuff of the sleeve.

            He brought his hand with the blade up to Sherlock's face.  He flinched. Moriarty smirked and brushed the back of his hand against Sherlock's cheek.

            “You have a beautiful face; you do know that, don't you?” Moriarty asked as he ran the pad of his thumb over the other's lips.

            “Beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions-”

            “I must have had a rough childhood,” A brief smile touched Moriarty's lips as he continued to touch Sherlock's face. He grabbed his chin and pulled his face toward him roughly and placed a chaste kiss on the side of Sherlock's mouth.  “Oh, now don't be shy.  I know you want this Sherlock.  It's just a matter of time.”

            Moriarty let go of his face, raised his arms and finished tearing apart Sherlock's black slacks, cutting around the belt so it rested on his bony hips.  Jim rested his hand there and the other drew in another shaky breath.  His hand would have fit almost perfectly if Sherlock wasn't so skinny.  He circled the other, keeping his hand on the hip and faced him again. He ran his fingertips up Sherlock's sides and he squirmed. 

            “Mmm...You should eat.  You're all skin and bones and brain.”

            Moriarty made fine work of his pants and threw the shreds in the corner.  He had nicked Sherlock thigh and he knelt again, sticking out his wide tongue and licked the cut.  Sherlock groaned and Moriarty brushed his now erect penis with the back of his hand.  The other shut his eyes tight. 

            “Too easy,” Moriarty whispered.

           

*******

 

            Sherlock opened his eyes and exhaled, not realizing that he was holding his breath. 

            His eyes roamed the space in front of him and when he didn't see Moriarty, he turned his head.   His neck was stiff and he grunted at the sharp pain there. 

            “Do you know what your problem is, Sherlock?”

            Sherlock turned his head too swiftly and he saw stars in his peripherals.

            Moriarty's sleeves were now rolled up and his shirt was unbuttoned four buttons down.  He was holding a hypodermic needle and extracting the liquid from the spoon he held over the flame.

            “You have this problem that you've gotten too used to John's presence,” He said as he walked over to Sherlock, needle in hand, and his tie draped over his arm.  Sherlock blinked and suddenly the tie was wrapped tightly around his upper arm.  Moriarty plunged the needle into the largest vein and pushed the addictive liquid into Sherlock's system.  He hissed as the vein started burning. “You think you can't solve the case without John's stability and calm nature. You think that without him around, you might relapse, like you are doing now. Without him around, you can't lose yourself in his praise and affection. That is why you are stalling this case, Sherlock.”

            He pulled the needle out and untied the tie.  Sherlock rubbed his arm where the needle had been.

            “Do you think that's all he is? A counterbalance?” Sherlock's voice was hoarse.

            “No,” Moriarty was standing in front of him again, this time holding a mirror. “He is your one true pressure point.  Hold out your arms.”

            Sherlock held his arms out and Moriarty placed the mirror in his hands.  Sherlock flinched away from his reflection.

            When he looked back up, Moriarty was hovering over his left shoulder and he grabbed the tie.

            “What do you see, Sherlock Holmes, when you look in that mirror?”  Moriarty cocked his head and looked at Sherlock as he slowly tightened the knot around his neck.

            “I see myself,” he managed to choke out.

            “No, no,” Moriarty's voice was sickeningly sweet.  His hand caressed Sherlock's right cheek. “Look again.”

            “I see Sherlock Holmes.  I see myself-”

            Moriarty cut him off by pulling the tie tighter.

            “Look harder.” He insisted through clenched teeth, still caressing his cheek.

            Sherlock opened his mouth but nothing came out and the other laughed as he loosened the tie. 

            “I don't understand.” Sherlock managed to choke out.

            Moriarty tightened the tie again.

            “Think!  I know you have all the answers rattling around in that big, sexy brain of yours!”  Moriarty was caressing his neck as he watched the other in the mirror.

            “I-I see fear,” Sherlock whispered. “I see a man...who's afraid of what he has become.”

            “Good,” Moriarty let go of the tie and place both hands on Sherlock's torso.  The other gasped at the touch as Moriarty circled around him, ducking under his arm, standing between him and the mirror. “Keep going. I know you see more than that.”

            “I-I see...” Sherlock swallowed audibly and his breathing was ragged.  A drop of sweat ran down the side of his face.  Moriarty reached up and wiped it off and he let his hand linger there, cupping Sherlock's face.

            Sherlock closed his eyes, wishing that John's hand was on his face.

            “Careful what you wish for.” Moriarty whispered.

            Sherlock opened his eyes and John was standing before him, a look of disappointment on his face. 

            “Do you want me to see you in such a state? Do you know how much you would let me down if I saw you in this state?”

            “J-John I...it's for a case.”

            “I don't care Sherlock. You have disappointed me. I used to be so in awe of you.  Now you are no more than a common man.”

            Sherlock closed his eyes as tears escaped.

            “I didn't ask to be revered, especially by you.  I didn't ask to be loved, or cared for, or thought of or-”

            “Didn't you Sherlock?”

            Sherlock's eyes snapped open and Moriarty was standing before him again, his hand still on his face.  He brushed his thumb over Sherlock's lips.  Moriarty smiled and licked his own lips.

            “After that first deduction, after that first word of appraisal, you were hooked. John Watson didn’t turn away from you; he looked at you with a sense of wonder, didn't he? You became addicted to that look.  After that _you_ became addicted to John Watson. And you made sure he was addicted to you.  He was addicted to your lifestyle and you kept him going.  You were his drug, Sherlock.”  Moriarty emphasized the last syllable of his name.  His fingertips were running the length of his collarbone, then over the rest of his pale torso.

            Sherlock shivered at the touch as his arms started to ache from holding the mirror. 

            “Because you left him, John has a new drug with the name of Mary. Clever girl that one, and just as dangerous as I am. Now that she has him you don't know how to function, do you Sherlock?  You've invented the game again.  You're stalling until he gets back from his honeymoon, aren't you.  You're stalling with Magnusson because you are afraid of the consequences.  You are afraid that he'll go after John.  It's too late for that.” Moriarty leaned forward and whispered in Sherlock ear.  “He's already burned the heart out of you.  Magnusson knows your pressure points.  Just like I do, Sherlock.”

            Sherlock was hyper-aware of the places that Moriarty was touching him; his hands on his hips, his chest touching his own chest, his lips on his ear again.  Sherlock lost all that Moriarty was talking about.  His mind was racing again, thinking about John, then Mary, and now the open-mouthed kiss that Moriarty placed on his neck.

            He leaned back and looked at Sherlock.

            “Such a state you are in.  Torn between the mess you are now and the man you want to be,” Moriarty shook his head and his hands were touching Sherlock in places he had never been touched by any man before.  “John keeps you right, doesn't he? He's the one you see in your dreams, in your fantasies...” 

            Moriarty's hand was clasped around Sherlock's cock and he inhaled sharply at the sensations exploding through his body.

            “So, why am I here?” Moriarty gripped the tie and cut off most of Sherlock's air.

            Again, Sherlock tried to speak, nothing came out.

            Moriarty pulled him close and Sherlock felt his warm breath on his face.

            “Why am I here, Sherlock? What kind of agony are you into bring me into your drug laden mind?”

            “I need you,” Sherlock's voice came out as a choked whisper.

            Moriarty loosened the tie and his grip on Sherlock's member.

            “Once again, only louder.”

            Sherlock was shaking and his mind racing so fast he couldn't focus on one thought.  He closed his eyes.

            “Sherlock I'm waiting,” his high pitched voice bounced around in Sherlock's head, as he stroked his cock slowly and deliberately.

            “I need you.” His own voice startled him and he dropped the mirror. Moriarty caught the mirror right before it hit the floor.

            “Seven years bad luck, Sherlock.” Moriarty tutted at him.

            Sherlock's breaths came out in jagged succession and he cried out as he tried to bend his arms.  Moriarty shook his head at him.

            “You do need me Sherlock,” he had a needle in his hand and Sherlock licked his lips. Moriarty grinned.  “This is the last of it my friend, let’s make the most of this.”

            He reached for the belt around Sherlock's waist and unclasped it and took it off.  He watched Sherlock watching the needle as he placed it between his teeth and with gentle moves, grabbed Sherlock's arm.  Wrapping the belt around the upper arm and pulling it tight, Moriarty found a vein in the crook of Sherlock's arm and plunged the needle in. Sherlock exhaled as he felt the drug running through his veins and the euphoria kicked in again.

            “Sherlock, solve the case, get Magnusson out of the way, and I will come back for you.”  Moriarty's voice was at his ear again and somehow Sherlock was on his knees.  Moriarty ran his hand though Sherlock's hair and he moaned.

            “I need you,” Sherlock repeated and Moriarty gripped his hair and turned his head up to face him.

            “Yes you do,” Moriarty smiled. “You are rather pretty like this. I think your fantasies are darker than even you will admit to. Do you like pain Sherlock?”

            “I like pain,” his words were slow. “You never feel pain. Why do you never feel pain?”

            “I rather like that,” Moriarty replied.  “You don't have to feel the pain either, Sherlock.

            Moriarty let go of the others hair and grabbed the belt from the floor.  He folded it in two and snapped it, sound echoing like a gunshot in Sherlock's ear.

            Sherlock felt the searing pain of the belt across his back and he cried out.

            “Just don't have to fear the pain!” Moriarty yelled with every lash.

            As quickly as he started he stopped, and grabbed Sherlock's hair and tipped his face up.  Tear stained cheeks and red eyes greeted him. 

            “Soon there will be no pain, and this will be a bad dream,” Moriarty grabbed his chin as his dark eyes roamed over Sherlock's face. “Forever the addict. Don't forget, you need me, Sherlock.”

 

*******

            Mrs. Hudson had been on vacation and Sherlock wasn’t found until forty eight hours later when Janine checked on him.  She found him in the middle of the sitting room, naked, surrounded by his tattered clothes, a mirror and three needles. Scrawled on the mirror, in Sherlock’s hand, was the name Moriarty.

 She cleaned him up and dressed the lashes on his back.  Janine never told anyone about what she had seen that day.

 

           


End file.
